


i'd kill and kill and kill again to spend ten minutes in your skin (beautiful people)

by Pearly_Pornography



Series: Pearly's Preklok Fics [28]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drug Addiction, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Slurs, Vomiting, self-abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 00:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13915629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: It tears him up inside, how beautiful people can be, and yet he's still stuck as himself.





	i'd kill and kill and kill again to spend ten minutes in your skin (beautiful people)

**Author's Note:**

> adn we're back to your regularly-scheduled MF sadporn
> 
> i'm TEMPTED to say this is the darkest one I've ever written??

There was a laundry list of songs Murderface had come to associate himself with. One of his favorite songs of all time was  _The Beautiful People_ by Marilyn Manson. Part because Marilyn was a fucking god, and part because, when he was  _pissed beyond all recognition_ , that was the first song that really seemed to understand him. Yeah.  _Hate every motherfucker that's in your way._ He was a creature of primal emotion, just above a caveman. And that's what it was: Primal emotion on a CD. Something tailor-made to fit his brain. And more than that, he hated beautiful people.

He'd been surrounded by them. Frankie, his high-school boyfriend, he was beautiful, a doll, an angel. He ended up with a gun in his mouth, because beauty couldn't save him from being filthy. Frankie had deserved to be beautiful. But everyone else, they just got it out of sheer luck. And if they were kind, that was luck too. It was all the luck of the draw, the birth lottery. Either you were pretty or you weren't, and if you weren't, you'd spend years upon years trying to change. Trying to be one of the  _beautiful people_. He had devoted more time than he could even imagine to becoming, at the very least, acceptable. He'd kept journals and journals, he'd stolen from his grandmother just so he could buy more journals, to keep strict count of everything that went inside of him.

But it was all useless.

Either he was shoving everything in sight into his stupid fat face, or it was coming back out into a toilet. 

He went about one day once without even touching a food product, and Magnus, his boyfriend at the time, was still happy to point out that he had a tummy. The kind that hung out just a bit over his shorts. The kind that could be pinched in his old, cracked fingers. The kind that made Murderface wish he could just cut it all off, like pork. Saw it off and eat it, but retain none of the nutrients, so he could be handsome.

Oh yeah, and by then he was in a band. And that wasn't fair. Not because he didn't like music, on the contrary, he was in love with music. He'd been playing bass since high school, his grandpa used to be into that kind of thing, if only for a brief moment. Murderface was wholly self-taught. He learned all of his favorite songs, he'd play old jazz music on his cassette player and stupidly pluck his bass along with the tune. 

No, what wasn't fair was his colleagues, the four douchebags he was working with. Magnus was good-looking for his age, a "silver fox" as some called it. He was an animal, he'd grab fistfuls of Murderface's ass in public and make him shuffle awkwardly back to the apartment with a boner, or worse, pull his legs up in an alley and pray nobody noticed what they were doing. The other band members didn't really seem to notice, and they all stopped caring about Murderface's nonexistent purity the second he turned 18. 

Regardless of how rotten Magnus was on the inside upon further reflection, he was still chiseled like a Roman statue. Bearing wrinkles of endless wisdom. 

Nathan had eyes like every green gemstone on the planet. His hair was black and long, a shroud of mystery, and his figure could lift a planet, as though he were Atlas. He had a deep voice. Like a demon, or a beast. He could probably lift an average-sized person like a Barbie doll and fuck them so hard their intestines would fall out. Murderface wanted to die whenever he wished that person was him, when he'd lock eyes with Nathan tearing the shit out of some ribs at a cheap restaurant and pray that he'd die like that in his arms.

Pickles, on the other hand, was kind of like a fairy. Not the gay kind, but the magic kind. A small, energetic, miniature sun. With fiery red hair. Murderface would one day have to come to terms with the fact that he'd always been attracted to the guy, even when he was in Snakes 'n Barrels and Murderface was just another nobody in the audience. And the worst part was that Pickles won that birth lottery twice, because he was also nice, way too nice. He bought movies for Murderface, he remembered his birthday in '96, he told him he  _wasn't ugly_. What a liar. No amount of starvation and surgery could fix him. Pickles had never known what it was like to be ugly. He had so much power in so little space. Murderface wished his body took up  _so little space_.

Skwisgaar was the worst, the very worst of them all. Not just because he looked like an idyllic statue, carved from marble, but because women knew it. Every damn day, Skwisgaar would show up in their shared apartment with some broad or another. And he'd always curl his lip out, saying,  _I's goin's to takes de gorls to sleeps_ , he wasn't fucking sleeping.  _Get over yourself, you fucking fag_. He was perfect in every way. Every time Murderface would record a bass track, and he'd take four or five takes, Skwisgaar would come in right after him and record in one perfect take. And then he'd leave, and Murderface would cry in his room, and Magnus would say it wasn't his fault that  _most people_ were better than him. Just how things went. That damned birth lottery, he swore. 

Oddly enough, Magnus would keep him just away from the brink of death. If he hadn't eaten in a few days, Magnus would order food and put it in front of Murderface, who would eat it in no time and then hide away in shame. Magnus really must've loved him, right? All that rough strangling on the bedroom floor, naked, like animals, it had to be worth something.

Because the moment Magnus left, Murderface spun out of control.

Like a puking, burning race car.

-

It was Sunday.

He woke up on the floor next to his mattress and he felt blurry. What did he do last night? Ecstasy. He had a really bad ecstasy problem. It was the only thing that ever put him in a good mood. For once it made him feel like his skin clung to his body right and like some things were fun. And now he was all out, now that Magnus was gone, and he was probably gonna start tweaking soon... no, wait, only methheads do that, right? 

Existing made him want to cut himself, but it wasn't something scheduled. In mornings, if he felt particularly bad, he'd carve the pain out of his upper thigh. He wanted to be sick, he needed molly bad. Enough to kill him, preferably. Deciding laying on the floor would do him little good, he got up to watch TV or something.

Today was another recording day. He didn't even know why they were still recording, because now half the album would only have one guitar track on each song. No way would Murderface (or Skwisgaar, for that matter) be cool with negotiating in  _another_ rhythm guitarist. And then he stood, and his stomach cramped up, like a big binder clip was pinched around his guts. The pain, the unbearable pain. He was starving, starving, starving. Drowning. There was no land in sight and he was drowning, and his head hurt.  _If you don't eat you'll die_ , he thought,  _but at least you won't die ugly, right?_

On entering the common room, he broke into the freezer, digging into a tub of chocolate ice cream. At least nobody else was awake. He turned on the TV, slumping over with eyes locked onto some Beavis & Butthead reruns. And then, in what felt like seconds, the tub was already halfway-empty. Looking down, though his figure hadn't changed, he saw his stomach burgeoning out like he was pregnant, sagging downwards into layers on layers of nasty, doughy skin. He felt like shit, the withdrawal was already kicking in. He felt like it got worse when he was at his lowest point.

"Heeey, Willy."

Pickles was up surprisingly early. "Ooh, chac'late fudge. Love dat shit."

"Yeah." Murderface wanted to crawl into a hole. "Hey, Picklesch. Can I get a hit of, uh, e--"

"No."

"Why not?! Fuck you, I'm tweakin' like hell!"

"You only tweak if yer on meth." Pickles took the tub, with those soft, freckled hands. Murderface's hands were so big and fat and misshapen. "An' that shit's naht good fer ya. Magnus shouldn't a' given it t'ya an' I'm naht gonna supply yer bad habit."

"Not even at partiesch?"

"...Maybe in a year."

"Fuck you, Picklesch. Fuck you. I hope you die in a fire."

"Yeah, yeah. When I'm dead y'can have all the ecstasy y'want."

Murderface grunted, crossing his arms. "Also, put some clean clothes ahn, yer shirt has a puke stain ahn it."

"Who fucking caresch."

"Roy's goin' to. Brush yer teeth too."

Murderface considered not doing it, but figured if he went to the bathroom that'd kill two birds with one stone. He got up, shuffling into the one bathroom they had. It was dingy, the tiles were filthy and the caulk was filthy. Skwisgaar always made as sure as possible that the bathtub was cleaned regularly so he could shower in there without trouble, though the lazy fucker never actually cleaned it himself. Murderface's toothbrush had mascara on it. That Swedish bastard was using it to clean up his lashes. It wouldn't come off. Sighing and kicking the door shut, he figured he'd be better off doing the nasty shit first. 

Pulling the toilet seat up, he rested his toothbrush on the tank. He'd clipped his fingernails, mostly for the purpose of playing, but it helped to not scratch the back of his throat. He always hated this part, it always took multiple tries. When he reached back he would dry heave and cough and it forced tears out of his eyes. But when it came, it was glorious. A splatter of chocolate ice cream puke, and then another, splash. He was doing great. He went until nothing would come, until his stomach squeezed in on itself, like wringing out a towel. He felt tired. It always took so much out of him. But he rose, on shaking legs, flushed the toilet, brushed his teeth, and ran off to get dressed. 

He'd been wearing the same shirt and vest for weeks now, so he supposed a change wasn't so bad. He threw on a Marilyn Manson t-shirt and an old denim jacket he'd covered with patches and pins. He wasn't changing his pants though. They were clean. His undies were kinda scratchy, but whatever. Halfway through getting dressed, Nathan, who shared a bed with him, was already getting up. God, why did he have to sleep in his underwear so Murderface could see every ridge on his perfectly-built body.

"Hey."

"Mornin'."

Nathan had nothing more to say, quickly shoving his way into a tank top and some jeans and then walking out. Murderface followed after him. Skwisgaar was out in the living room, fully dressed in white. He was so beautiful. Murderface wanted to kill himself. Pickles was making eggs.

"Hey. Y'want any?"

Nathan immediately stood next to him. He liked to watch Pickles cook, for some dumbfuck reason. Skwisgaar sat down on the couch, where Murderface hadn't even bothered to turn the TV off from before.

"What ams dis trash."

"Beavisch an' Butthead."

"Change it."

"To what?"

"I don'ts knows."

"Do it your-fuckin'-schelf."

"Willy!" Pickles shouted. They didn't really have a kitchen, more of a combination living room and food area with no doors to separate them. "Yeh want any eggs?"

"I already ate!"

"Alreet dood."

-

The studio was busy. Everyone was hard at work when the four showed up. Roy always greeted them with a pat on the back, and it was always just hard enough to make Murderface feel like he was going to fall over. 

"Good morning, boys."

Charles shook his hand, firmly, like they were first meeting. Roy's son was there, too, looking annoyed and bored as usual as he walked by. 

"Hi Damien."

"Fuck off."

"Fuck you too."

" _Damien_ ," Roy gritted his teeth. "William I am so sorry about him."

"Uh... I forgive you?" He blinked. Why did parents always apologize  _for_ their kids? Aren't the kids supposed to apologize? Whatever. Skwisgaar was already going in to record. Murderface hated watching him do his takes (or rather, his  _one, singular take_ ) because they were always perfect,  _always_ fucking perfect. 

"What songs ams we doin's."

"Uh, I was thinking we could record  _Go Into The Water_ today." Nathan replied.

"Okays."

"But I mean, maybe we should do the drum track fir--"

"Nos." Skwisgaar tapped the mic, and began tuning his guitar, it was all done in seconds. "We records Pickle next, den Natens, and den Williams."

"That seems like a weird order."

"Maybe if we haves de whole tracks done, he's does quits fuckin's up de bass tracks."

Murderface felt like there were needles piercing his heart. The depression was kicking him hard. He wanted pills, or knives. Pickles, who was heavily drinking out of a flask, pulled the opening out of his mouth for a moment.

"Skwisgaar, don't say dat."

"Ams trues."

"Skwis--"

"Isch fine. I don't care." Murderface was transparent with his emotions, even if he tried not to be. At the very least he managed to elicit a look of guilt out of Skwisgaar for half a second. Pickles sighed, unscrewing his flask and continuing to drink.

"Starts recordin's." Nathan nodded, tapping the record button. And, as was fucking expected, Skwisgaar spewed perfect riff after perfect riff. The only good thing about it was that they saved money on recording time, which made Charles happy, at least. He wondered if women loved him because he fingered them like he fingered that Gibson. Murderface had almost grown weary of being mystified by Skwisgaar's playing. He used to shed tears when he'd see the guitar god play, but now he knew what it was: A stupid bragging point. Now he just wanted to cry because he'd never be that good. It wasn't fair in the slightest.

Pickles also did his recording in one take. A bit rougher, but that was how he liked it. Murderface could see the sweat on his brow, could tell that he was working really fucking hard. His lips and his tongue and his hands and his brows, all working overtime. He stepped out, and Nathan gave him a high five. Murderface declined him that luxury.  _Fuck you, you birth-lottery-winner_. Nathan's takes took a bit of re-do, because Nathan was a perfectionist, and if his screams weren't perfect, he may as well have thrown in the towel. Murderface could get that. He hated fucking up all the time, too. 

"Alreet dood, 's yer turn."

Murderface's lungs tightened in his chest, every cell in his body was trying to run away. He took shaky steps towards the booth. It had been a few hours, and his head hurt... He pulled his bass out of its case. A burden he had to carry. He had to tune it, and it always took him too long. Magnus always said it took him too long. But he got it. The strings were blurry, his head was heavy, and his brow was sweating. His horrible, cro magnon brow.

"I'm ready." His body was shaking. The track started, and he began. And then it stopped.

"Wrongs."

"Yeah, that's uh. That's not right."

Murderface swallowed. "Okay, uhhh... Again." 

And he was off. And then he wasn't.

"Does you needs de fuckin's  _sheets musics_ or somethin's?"

"Dude, are you like, okay."

No, he wasn't. He was tweaking.  _Fuck who that term was meant for, or whatever it meant, he was fucking tweaking._ His head hurt and he couldn't look anyone in the eye without being full of shame, and then his head would pound. 

"One more," His voice was hoarse. Nathan shrugged. Focus, man. "Okay, I'm ready."

And then, he played perfectly. Didn't miss a beat. He shredded that bass so hard, the thrumming bump on the track would haunt people for years. He did it like it was nothing at all, like he'd learned from the best. Pickles clapped him on the back, Nathan patted his head. Skwisgaar gave him a round of wide-eyed applause. They all loved him, and when they listened back, they didn't have a single complaint to give.

At least, that's what he wished had happened.

In reality, he passed out in the recording booth before even playing a single note.

-

He woke up on his mattress after a dark, dreamless sleep. He had pissed himself and his head was pounding. He tried to sit up. Groan. He felt like a corpse. And as if on cue, Nathan ran in, holding a grocery bag. 

"Are you okay."

"I'm fucking fine." 

"You look like shit, oh my god." And then softer, and more guiltily. "Oh my god." Like handling a small animal, Nathan reached over to lift Murderface's head, slotting another nearby pillow underneath it. "Hold on..." Digging through the grocery bags, he pulled out one of those packaged sandwiches. Murderface wanted to cry.  _God, no, please, he was working so hard. You can't. It's just not ethical, it's cruel._

"I'm not hungry."

"No, I mean yes, you are, Charles is a doctor and he said you are."

Murderface whimpered. "Eat the fucking sandwich."

"No."

"You're gonna die, eat the sandwich."

"Fuck off! You fuckin' eat it!"

" _I'm not taking you to the fucking hospital, eat the goddamn thing!_ "

"You can schay that, you're not  ** _fat!_** "

**"Guys."**

The door was partway open, and Pickles was standing there. He sighed.  _Not mad, just disappointed._ Nathan grunted, shoving the sandwich into Murderface's shaking hand and stomping out. Pickles sighed, trading places with him seemingly. "Everyone's pretty upset." Pickles laughed, solemnly. "Y'really took us by surprise."

"Fuck off, you gonna guilt trip me?"

"No, 's naht what I'm tryin' to do." He sighed. "We're gonna hold tryouts fer a rhythm guitarist next week."

"No we're not."

"Yes, we are."

"No. I'll die before we hire another fucking guitarischt."

"This is about what's best fer the band. Okey? I'm naht doin' this to  _spite you._ "

"Might asch fuckin' well be."

"...Just eat so I can fuckin' sleep at night." Murderface refused to look him in the eyes. "An' then take a shower, yeh stink like piss."

"Gee! Thanksch!" 

Pickles stared, in thought for a moment.

"...Eat it and I'll give yeh a hit of molly."

Fuck.

He felt so weak. Would he really take this? God... Christ... He wanted to die. This was humiliating, more humiliating than prostitution, that he'd let himself go for drugs. But the spinning and the fatigue, it was killing him, and he'd had enough. He unwrapped the sandwich, teary-eyed, taking a bite out of it. It felt heavy in his stomach. Another, and he weighed as much as his mattress. By the time it was gone, he felt like he was huge enough to have his own gravity. "Y'gahtta prahmise naht to puke it back up. I'm serious."

"Mm-hm."

"I'm sahrry." Pickles dropped a little baggie in Murderface's lap, with one pill in it. And he stood, clearly wracked with guilt. 

"Ain't Schkwischgaar gonna come vischit me."

"He said he didn't wanna see you."

Of course. He wasn't even surprised. It broke his heart, and he wasn't shocked that it did. "Naht- naht because he hates you! It's jest, it's too much fer 'im, I think."

"Yeah, right. Like anything isch too much for  _Mischter Perfect._ " Murderface laid down on his pillow, eyes red, choking back tears. "I'd kill asch many people asch it took to schpend ten minutesch in hisch schkin."

"Willy, yeh shouldn't compare yerself to--"

"Get fucked with that shit. Scheriouschly. Juscht fuck off. You don't get it. I wanna be alone."

"...Okey. Don't ferget t' shower."

"Whatever."

Pickles sighed again.  _Not mad. Disappointed._ Fuck those birth lotteries, those  _beautiful people_. When he was gone, Murderface knew what he had to do. He preferred his upper thighs, because they were easier to hide. Sitting in his piss-stained underwear, he left a slit in his scarred, ugly leg-meat. And more, and more. He reveled in the pain. It was his atonement for being so stupid and ugly. He'd ought to kill himself. But he didn't have the guts, he was too pathetic to kill himself. Maybe he'd get kidnapped by Magnus, and buttfucked in a car, and then stabbed. That'd be fine. 

He drew another slit, a deep one, feeling like the scum of the earth, the lowest of the low.

He popped a pill, so he could float away, into the flesh of a new man.


End file.
